


On the Wing

by loquaciousquark



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Bad Puns, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:26:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3378071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loquaciousquark/pseuds/loquaciousquark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because, sometimes, it's easier to laugh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Wing

**Author's Note:**

> A kmeme fill! [Prompt](dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11381.html?thread=44933237#t44933237): _So Hawke re-teaches sex to Fenris, right? She gives him good sex memories rather than bad, shows him that sex is a balance of pleasure not one person getting it all, etc. Fenris learns pretty quick and - hey, she doesn't want to brag buuuuut - their sex life is great._
> 
> _Thing is, Fenris is a serious guy and Hawke's...well...Hawke. So she decides that she has to shown him that it doesn't have to be super serious, intense, night long lovemaking all the time. Sometimes, she's happy to have a laugh, get off and get a good night's sleep. [...] So long as they're laughing, this OP is happy :)_
> 
> It's been a long time since I was able to kick back with a kmeme fill, and when Cynic started challenging everyone to write smut, this seemed the perfect opportunity. I hope you enjoy.

Isabela buys her a negligee.

This is the first thing Hawke doesn’t understand. Other questions follow swiftly but no less urgently: why, first, is it the most garish orange she has ever seen; why have silver-paint feathers been stitched along the too-short hem; _why_ has it been made with acres of fabric billowing everywhere but the important bits? She doesn’t mind the idea of the gift, not really, but it’s not like she’s given Isabela all the details and it’s not like she’d _asked_ for the most hideous underclothing she’s ever seen to be hand-delivered to her door—by a blushing runner no less, with a note holding nothing but a poorly-drawn cock and a winking face. Hawke does, after all, have some standards.

She has never seen anything so orange. Out of curiosity she pulls the curtains shut against the afternoon and finds the color undimmed by shade; she doesn’t know if it’s been enchanted or if the thing has been intended for some adventurous miner’s wife, but the orange shines just as bright and the feathers glint just as cheerfully, and really, has she any choice but to try the thing and see?

No, she decides, grinning. She does not.

It fits. Of course it does, as if Isabela had made it for her especially, and Hawke discards her everyday robe to the foot of the bed in favor of looking at the monstrosity properly. Short, she realizes— _shockingly_ short, the hem barely brushing her thighs, the thinnest material she’s ever touched made into a sort of dressed slip, provocatively banded across her breasts and arse with more silver feathers. And a…vest, she supposes is the word, of the same brilliant gauze, no sleeves but a flimsy tie just beneath her breasts, pouring down her back to swirl somewhere near her knees. More feathers along the shoulders, too, as if it needed them. “Poor blessed goose,” she says aloud, thumbing along the gilt-stiffened feathers. “I hope you gave them what they deserved.”

_And more_ , she adds to herself, striding over to the tall mirror set beside her dressing screen. The orange yellows her complexion further, giving her a delightfully sickly sallowness, and her eyes—a private pride—have dulled in comparison to the sheer vibrancy of the silver paint. Even loosening her hair and shaking it out over her shoulders does nothing for her appearance; instead it catches on the feathertips and snarls there, pulling, giving her the appearance of a woman not only ill but mad.

It is, without question, the ugliest thing she has ever seen.

Which is why she isn’t the least surprised when Fenris opens the door immediately behind his own knock, takes two steps into her bedroom, and goes immediately, totally still. She can see him in the mirror, his eyes sweeping down her back to her knees and back up again, lingering on her arse, again on her silver shoulders. Then they meet hers in her reflection and, without a word, Fenris turns on his heel, closes the door, and locks it with a pointed click.

His face is the most carefully blank she’s ever seen it. “What,” he says, “is this?”

Hawke wants to laugh so badly her stomach hurts. Instead she turns, hands fisted at her waist, and juts out a hip in something she hopes is close to sensuality. “Fenris,” she purrs, cocking an eyebrow, “I didn’t realize you’d be stopping by.”

He looks wary as a cat at a bath. “You asked me to come. What _is_ that, Hawke?”

Oh. Right. Aveline’s dinner in two days; she’d wanted to know his opinion on a dish to bring along. Ah, well—they have time, and this is infinitely more entertaining. “Oh, you know.” She tosses her hair over one shoulder—or tries, then has to pick it out of a particularly stubborn gilt feather when it snags before tossing her head a second time. The orange coat flutters majestically around her thighs. “Just a little thing I’d thought I’d slip on to make myself more…comfortable.”

“Comfortable.”

Hawke winks, puckers her lips in an exaggerated kiss. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

Fenris sets his book carefully on her dresser—and she’d forgotten that, too, that he’d asked to borrow the second in the series—and slowly, _so_ slowly, begins to make his way towards her across the room. Halfway across and she can see the amusement hidden in the corners of his mouth; four steps away and she can make out the laughter in his eyes, the corners wrinkling as he tries not to smile. Stubborn man, she thinks, not bothering to hide her own, and turns back to herself in the mirror.

“I quite like it,” she says at last, carefully arranging her hair over her shoulders again, twisting side to side until the coat swishes around her legs. The negligee itself is still _grossly_ inadequate at any sort of real coverage, but—well, the feathers help, sort of, and Hawke toys with the peak of the silver V rather pointedly outlining her cleavage. “It’s got a sort of…subtle dignity.”

Fenris stops behind her, close enough she can feel the air change with proximity, not quite close enough to touch. He looks at her in the mirror again, following the motion of her hand down her stomach and lower until her fingers just brush the hem; then he says, on the verge of an open chuckle, “Tell me where you found such a thing.”

To the Void with subtlety. Hawke leans back the necessary inch and presses herself full against Fenris’s chest, ignoring the crackle of the painted feathers being crushed, ignoring the questionable sound of the fine orange gauze snaring on his breastplate. “Oh, Fenris,” she whispers, breathless as she can make it, “tell me truly: does the source of the thing matter, or only whether or not I can still seduce you while wearing it?”

He laughs at that, low but without reservation, and settles his hands on her waist. Warm enough she can feel it through the thin fabric, coarse enough to rasp; her stomach flips in lazy anticipation, with the knowledge that despite the months since their reconciliation he can still quicken her blood with a look. He drops his mouth to her ear, his nose against her cheek. She can see his smile in the mirror. “You are welcome to make the attempt,” he says, smooth as cream, and Hawke grins.

“De _light_ ed,” she purrs again—she’s rather good at purring, she’s discovering—and turns until she can drape both arms over Fenris’s shoulders. “I suppose you’d like to see what’s under these lovely feathers.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Oh, _oh_ , so bold—and yet so armored himself.” Hawke tuts, trailing a finger down Fenris’s breastplate before primly smoothing the feathers over her breasts. “Not just anyone may pluck me bare, you know.”

His eyebrow lifts. “Is that so? What must I do to find myself in such august company, then?”

“You’re a very intelligent man. I’m sure you can think of something.”

Fenris laughs again, steps even closer until his chest brushes against hers, until he can press his mouth to the corner of her own. His hands catch hers between them, holding them still just long enough to sway her to complacency; she turns her head and finds his mouth properly, her nose bumping his, both of them ignoring the way her hair still pulls at the feathers with every movement. It’s not quite ideal, the negligee too uncomfortable for such easy affection, but Fenris’s mouth is warm and his hands around hers are relaxed, and when he draws back she chases him, seeks out his mouth second time, a third, a fourth. He cups her head at the last, distracted, his fingers curling around the back of her neck; she takes advantage of her new-freed hand to find the hidden latches of his breastplate and undoes two of the little buckles before Fenris laughs and twists away.

“You have no _patience_ ,” he tells her from safe distance, though he’s already unbuckling the other two without prompting. The breastplate falls away and is placed to the side; his vanbraces follow, unneeded, and before he can reach for his belt Hawke lays hands on it first, kissing him again, herding them both in the vague direction of the bed.

“Let me,” she says, as if she has not already done it, and Fenris blows out a breath into her hair as she slides the belt loose, the long tongue hissing in the slow draw, leather on leather the only sound in the room.

Well. The only sound besides her idiotic gilded feathers crackling with her every movement.

She doesn’t need to look to know Fenris is smirking. She does anyway when the belt comes free at last, and of course he is, and Hawke deliberately sways her hips as she flings the belt to the floor behind her. “My lord is amused,” she says, sultry as she can be in brilliant orange, and props a fist on her hip. “Has he anything to contribute to the conversation?”

“This is a conversation?” He steps closer; she steps backwards at the same rate, quirking her eyebrow. Fenris hesitates only a moment; then his eyes darken and he takes another step, his mouth twitching as she backs away again, not entirely sure where she means to go but enjoying this too much all the same. “Or a chase?”

“Who knows?” she says airily, and twitches at her coat until the hem of it flares dramatically between them. “Can’t it be both?”

“With you, Hawke, it’s always both.”

The backs of her knees strike the bedside. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“As you like,” he says, his voice dropping, and this time when he approaches she makes no attempt to evade him. He touches her cheek, lingering there just an instant too long before his fingers drop to skate over her jaw, the side of her throat, her collarbone, landing at last on the delicate silk tie just beneath her breasts.

“At my lord’s will,” Hawke says, and laughs.

Fenris snorts, but one firm tug has the thing undone. It takes some doing to get her free of the coat—even the gentlest tugs are sharp enough to sting tears to her eyes—but soon enough she’s free of vest and tie alike, and if a few hairs have torn free with the feathers, well. Such is the price of art.

Still, Fenris’s hands are gentle as he smoothes her hair from her face again, as he brushes the curve of her neck, as he bends to kiss her. Too gentle, especially considering she’s still wearing gilt feathers across her arse, and Hawke shudders, pulls free, throws a teasing smile over her shoulder to soften it. “Is the chase over already?”

“Yes,” Fenris says, smirking, and when Hawke shimmies just enough to make the feathers shiver with glinting silver light Fenris takes her by the waist and pulls her against him. “You would mock me even now?”

Hawke shimmies again, tips her head back onto his shoulder. “To the end of time, my darling elf.”

One of his arms has wrapped around her ribs, warm against the undersides of her breasts; his other hand drops to her waist, slides slowly lower, curls carefully around the feathers still clinging to the negligee’s hem. “It is so… short.”

“ _Orlesian_ , Fenris.” She flexes her palm against the back of his hand, tugging ever-so-slightly upwards to bare another inch of her pale thigh. “How else can one ensure one’s legs are shown to best advantage?”

“Advantage indeed,” Fenris says drily, but she can feel his breath hitch in his chest when she lets his hand drop again. She likes that, likes more the reflexive sigh when she reaches up to slide her fingers into his hair, the familiar half-smile as he leaves her in favor of undoing his tunic with quick, efficient motions, the hush of worn cloth as he shrugs it free to fall to the floor, forgotten.

Hawke flattens a palm to his bare chest, knotted lyrium, marveling all over again at the faint lights that drag in her wake, and grins when he pulls her face to his in transparent distraction. “Why, Fenris,” she murmurs against his mouth, biting gently at his lower lip, “it’s almost as if you _like_ my legs—“

He laughs, loud enough to startle her, and lifts her in one motion from the floor to the bed. She’s still wearing the ridiculous feathers and they rustle as he follows, too graceful in comparison, his bare skin gleaming in a decidedly attractive fashion that annoys her almost as much as it intrigues. He pulls her to her knees, settles behind her again, his mouth to the crook of her neck, his fingers slipping along her shoulder beneath one delicate strap. Enough teasing, she thinks again, and doesn’t know if she means for him or for herself—and then his mouth opens to the barest scrape of teeth as his thumb slides over her breast, and her breath escapes in a long, thin stream of satisfaction.

Fenris has always been good with his hands; the past months have taught him her body too, the quickest ways to bring her to the end—or to bring out her temper, the nights he teases her past endurance with his mouth and his fingers, that same damnable smirk on his face that she can feel even now against her shoulder. Still, she’s not one to complain about such undivided attention, not when their lives give such respite so rarely; instead she settles back against him, feeling the rise of his chest against her spine, the rasp of his fingers over sensitive skin, the way her own breathing quickens as he pulls just that much harder, changes from his thumb to his whole hand.

“Tease,” she mutters. He snorts, hot breath on her throat, and lifts his fingers to his mouth until they’re damp before returning them to her breast. The arch she makes into that touch is entirely involuntary, as is the groan in the back of her throat, and she can’t— “Fenris—“

His teeth close on her neck, tight and hard for only an instant before he masters himself again. Hawke demands of herself the same, clamps her hands on Fenris’s thighs where they rest outside her own. Her right thumb rests on the inseam of his trousers, leather worn soft as hide with years, and she forces herself to focus on that only, the bump of stitches beneath her thumbnail and the warmth of his leg under her palm. She sighs again when he moves to her other breast; in a moment of weakness she covers his hand with her own, pressing it harder against her, reveling in the low curse he groans into her ear.

Happiness aches behind her ribs. “Fenris,” she says, and tosses her head until she can meet his eyes down the curve of her cheek, heavy-lidded as her own in the lazy afternoon light. She can’t keep back her smile. “What if I told you your touch made me want to fly?”

This noise is less pleasure and more annoyance, and his free hand drops to the feathered hem draped over her bare leg. The gilt has begun to itch, the gauze sticking where she has begun to sweat in the middle of her back, at the crease of her thighs. He mouths the line of her jaw. “Spare me, Hawke.”

“What if I said you were the wind beneath my wings?”

“Stop.”

“What if I said your hands— _Maker_ , a little harder, right there—your hands bring me to the beak of pleasure—“

“Hawke—“

“Or perhaps that you have the most talon-ted mouth I’ve ever—“

“Then _I_ will stop,” Fenris says, and Hawke bursts into breathless laughter. It’s an empty threat and they both know it; even as she stretches against him his hand is coming free of her preposterous feathered cleavage, sliding down the length of her body to join the other on the hem of the negligee. He’s hard at her back, the tension coiled in every muscle pressed against her; she lifts her arms and he obliges, pulling the cursed thing over her head at last. Gilded feathers scratch across her face but she doesn’t care, can’t be bothered—the moment she’s free Fenris has both arms around her, pulling her solidly against his chest, lyrium-light rippling down his arms, through the leather stretched over his thighs.

He’s smiling as he kisses her, real and without shadow, and it nearly breaks her heart.

But that’s good enough reason to keep the hurt from her own smile, and she turns her forehead against his neck as he palms over her breasts, the rise of her ribs, her stomach, between her legs. Dear, familiar hands, so strong around the hilt of a sword and so unsure with the softer things—and her own familiar gasp as he presses inward, slow and steady. It’s not the same as him proper but it’s enough for now, enough to start, and when she can breathe again she rolls her hips to meet him, careful at first, then stronger, reaching back for him with both hands to keep hold of her last vestiges of restraint. His hair is soft, too soft; his noise of encouragement has her fingers curling into it nonetheless, gripping the nape of his neck as much for her own control as her desperation.

Not yet. Not yet—

“Flames!” Hawke gasps, and bucks hard into Fenris’s hand. He laughs, presses harder—and withdraws, startling out another oath as Hawke tries vainly to chase him. “Tease,” she snaps again, then, “ _bastard_ ,” and even as his laughter grows warmer in her ear he’s lifting her to her knees on the coverlet, away from him, from the trouser laces she can hear nearly snapping with his haste. She clenches her fists against her mouth, against her eyes, her heart pounding in her throat; she needs him _now_ , needs— “Fenris, please, come on—“

“Here,” he says, his voice gone rough with arousal, and then his hand splays broad and dark over her stomach, holding her in place despite her heaves for breath, despite his sweat-gleaming skin gone slick against hers as he nudges between her legs.  She reaches blindly for purchase; one lucky hand finds the footboard and she grips it like drowning, white knuckles on black oak, her other hand low to help guide and Fenris groans as he _pushes—_

They both go still when he is seated, just for a moment. Hawke’s thighs tremble with strain, with the promise of pleasure already once curtailed; Fenris’s chest lies pressed against the length of her back, his forehead brushing the bare blade of her shoulder, his palm still flattened low on her stomach. He breathes a word she doesn’t know, presses his mouth to her neck—impatient, she rocks against him, and his voice cuts off into a hard moan.

“Hawke,” he says then, and she doesn’t know how he can _speak_ when she’s half-mad with the need to move _._ She rolls again, her toes curling, and a white-vined hand comes hard to the footboard just outside her own. Not so blithe, then—and his trousers not even discarded, she realizes distantly as his still-clad legs press against her own, only opened as far as duty required—or lust permitted. She doesn’t care; it takes him an hour to peel out of them, anyway, but at last—at last—at _last_ his damnable control reaches the razor-thin wire hers has already snapped, and he looses a breath and wraps an arm around her waist and—

“Took you long enough,” she manages through the stars.

His laugh is a short huff of a thing against her hair, a breath caught up in the deliberate push and pull of his hips into hers. It’s not fast but it’s not— _gentle_ , either, long and deep and unrelenting, his knuckles just as knotted on the footboard as her own. She gasps; he sighs, his hand returning briefly to her breast before dropping to where they’re joined. She doesn’t need the encouragement, not really, still too close from before, but Fenris has always been an attentive lover, and Fenris has always been good with his hands.

“There seemed little reason to rush,” he adds, husky, taking her earlobe between his teeth. His stomach presses against her with every quick breath; his pulse pounds into her skin. Each time he withdraws he slides his fingers against her, rough calluses and pressure so gentle she aches, and it takes very real effort to keep from quickening his pace out of sheer impatience. But she loves these, too, the slow times when she can feel every inch of his skin gliding against her body, inside and out, and the weight of his caught breaths in her ear, and the way his voice drops just shy of a groan when she presses back against him, just a little harder, a little deeper. She _loves_ this, loves—

She drags in a breath, scrabbles for the thread of the conversation. “Now that I’m free of the—orange, Andraste, _Maker_.”

“One reason among many. Hawke— _Hawke_ , I—“

She’s going to tear holes in her sheets. She’s going to scar crescent moons into her polished footboard, because she’s so close and her heart _hammers_ in her chest and her hair is clinging to her neck, and Fenris has dropped to that erratic rhythm that means he is close himself, his fingertips hard between her legs, his mouth hot and open on her shoulder. His tongue presses against her skin and she knows he tastes sweat; she clenches her teeth around a cry and turns her head, reaching down until her fingers fumble between his own—

She pushes with him, once, twice, a third time—

“ _Flames_ ,” she chokes, and comes with lightning behind her eyes.

It takes some time to come down again after that. She’s caught in the heady spiral, too dizzy with satisfaction and sated pleasure to let go so soon; but gradually, heartbeat by slowing heartbeat, she realizes that she has fallen flat to her stomach on the bed, her legs crooked and comfortable, the coverlet crumpled beneath her in light now nearer dusk than afternoon. More than that, Fenris has dropped too, his weight more on her than off; his hand still lies tangled with hers where they’d slid from the footboard together. He breathes just as quickly as she—she can feel his ribs spreading atop her, and his skin sliding over her skin—and when she musters the energy to turn her head, his eyes are closed.

“Fenris,” she sighs, pressing her mouth tiredly to his chin.

No lyrium sparks now, not after that. He searches blindly for her face with his own, finds her nose by accident, brushes his forehead against hers. Rarely is Fenris so openly affectionate as when he is exhausted. “Hawke.”

“You’re very heavy.”

“Mm.”

“That was a hint.”

He laughs, an easy, tired, contented thing, and pulls free with a hitching breath. Not away, though; her arm finds his waist, and his hand curls around her shoulder, and when he cracks one green eye to look at her he smiles again.

“What?”

“You have feathers in your hair.”

Hawke stiffens. “I do not.”

She does. A half-dozen silver-painted goosefeathers, tangled at the ends of her hair in recalcitrant snarls. Hawke arranges them on the coverlet between them once they’re freed, all in a line; Fenris touches the nearest, shaking his head. “You never told me where it came from.”

“Isabela. Who else?”

“Who else,” Fenris echoes, and closes his eyes as Hawke twists to her back beside him. “A…generous gift.”

“A generous _something_. I just hope the next one’s not so orange.”

His palm spreads warm and wide over her waist. He presses his mouth to her hair and says, “The next one?”

She has no answer for that save to kiss him as thoroughly as she can. His fingers slide between hers when it is over; Hawke pulls him closer in a cloud of silver feathers, in love and glad to be so, and purrs his name into his ear, over and over, until they’re both laughing into the dusky light.


End file.
